


This One Is Lovely

by ColumbiaSkies



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Boardwalk Empire - Freeform, F/F, alternate universe- in new york
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 04:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4592334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColumbiaSkies/pseuds/ColumbiaSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angela does run away to Greenwich Village to pursue her art and try to start a new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This One Is Lovely

**Author's Note:**

> THERE ARE MAJOR HISTORICAL REFERENCES, including a major character, not at all related to Boardwalk Empire. (If you watched Making of the Mob, you might get it more.)

Angela made her way toward the crowded Union Square. _10 am, Monday morning. 10 am, Monday morning,_ she repeated in her head. It was still early, but she was nervous. Up to now, no dealer had bothered to truly pick up her work. A couple had bought paintings for their own homes or for friends, most brushed over her booth or listened to her expositions with stoic smiles before carrying on. She put more work than usual into this last street festival, even made cards for the rather makeshift studio on the top floor of her small apartment.

The façade of owning an actual business seemed to attract more attention than the passing rich patron looking to spruce up their study or sitting room, and thankfully a real dealer. He came off warm and optimistic, even with being a bit _too_ into her nude works.

She was to deliver the three paintings he had chosen from her studio to be put up for some galleries in the area at today’s festival. There was one gallery she hoped would post the highest bid for it, a little place closer to Times Square, which got a lot of foot traffic.

She pulled her cart along, gently nudging other citizens with her elbows, and periodically looking back to make sure she still had everything for her booth.

As she was about to cross 5th Avenue, a taxi driver ignored the stream of civilians and cut through a break in the crowd, forcing her to stop in her tracks.

She heard a high-pitched “FUCK!” behind her followed by a crash and spun around to see her folding tabled topple over the cart along with some paintings. She quickly pulled the cart off into the grass, as a taller woman pulled herself up from the sidewalk with wide eyes.

Before Angela could ask if she was alright, the woman looked to her, hands up like she was being arrested, and said, “I am _so,_ sorry.”

Angela shook her head and forced a smile, “Its alright.” She couldn’t be mad. She’d run into plenty of people on these busy streets. Never knocked over anyone’s carts, but it can happen. They both bent down to pick the table off the fallen paintings.

“Oh, dear,” Angela sighed at the sight of the bottom work. A ragged scrape had torn a hole in the corner of the canvas, exposing the wood and removing the paint.

“That couldn’t be fixed, could it?” the woman said apologetically as they stood up.

“Its just one,” Angela shrugged, setting the ruined painting against the cart to adjust the table.

The woman picked it up, looking it up and down. “This is beautiful, it’s your work?” It was of a couple Angela had seen at Coney Island about a month ago. Sitting on a bench in the sand with cotton candy.

“Yes,” Angela answered trying to set the other works on the cart more securely against the table.

“Say,” the woman continued, smiling, “You’re an artist. I’m actually looking for a few things for my cousin’s new place. He asked me, you know.”

Angela looked at the woman for the first time. She was quite pretty. A fair face with a prominent nose and high cheeks, full lips, and dark doe eyes framed by light make-up and thin eyebrows. It was obvious she had money to spare. She wore her hair up and waved, and her clothes were high-end, proven by the mink around her neck. Angela suddenly felt embarrassed to speak to her.

“well,” she finally spoke, “You’re both welcome to see my booth at the festival on the edge of Union Square.”

“Oh, just now?” Angela thought she spotted genuine sorrow in the woman’s eyes. “I’m afraid I’m returning home. My husband’s expecting me for an outing.”

At the word “husband” Angela felt a sinking in her chest. “Oh, well some other time then.” She turned to finish packing up her cart and continue on, but the woman reached for her arm.

“Perhaps later on today?” she said. “It’ll be a small outing, just a lunch really.”

Angela beamed, “That sounds good.” She rummaged in her purse for one of her cards, “This is my studio, right up on 10th.”

The woman took the card with both hands and held it close to her chin like a child. Something in her eyes contradicted the girlish position. “What time will you return there?”

“I usually have everything unpacked around four.”

“Wonderful,” the woman looked over the card, “Miss Angela Dietrich.” She held out her hand, “Name’s Anna.”

Angela shook her hand, and Anna lingered with it for just a moment longer than anticipated, before going past her and turning down 5th Avenue.

The dealer came by the booth at about 10:30, providing the money for her commissions as promised. It wasn’t as much as she was hoping, but anything helped. He assured her for probably the thirteenth time, that he would find her a buyer, and she hoped she could believe him.

She spent the rest of the festival watching the time. Plenty of patrons stopped to see her work, but aside from the dealer, she was paid none. Enough of the patrons seemingly came to speak to her about a coffee or a drink, which made her want to cut her hair again.

After closing up, she headed home following the low sun. She could feel her heart beating, wondered if Miss Anna would show up at all. Her little apartment and studio was located in a newer brick building just past the fire station. She had to make several trips up and down the stairs to carry her entire cart. On the last trip she made for six last paintings, she arrived at Anna standing confidently in the doorway.

“I know, I’m early,” she shrugged elegantly, “I’m afraid I’m terrible at killing time.”

“Oh, it no problem,” Angela said over the stack of artwork in her arms.

Without saying a word, Anna smiled and took three of the paintings from her and nodded to the stairs. “Shall we?”

They set the paintings against the wall under a few that were hanging.

Angela opened the curtains while Anna wandered the room stopping to analyze each work of art, on the floor and on the wall.

“So your cousin was busy?” Angela asked.

Anna laughed, “Oh I wouldn’t bring him. The son of a bitch wouldn’t know good taste if his momma cooked it for him. I’m sure he only asked me to look because he wanted an excuse to talk to me.”

Angela smiled at the joke.

Anna continued, “Good taste or not, he’ll get what I give him and he’ll pay for it. He’s setting up at the Waldorf you know.”

“How extravagant.”

“Not after he’s through with it.”

Anna picked up a few pieces and laid them out on the table near the window.

Angela took the opportunity to stand near her. Anna had dressed down after her lunch, but the new outfit was of a flowing material and quite a bit more revealing in the chest, and a light perfume to match the simple outfit.

“Do you see anything you like?” Angela asked.

Anna recognized her own opportunity and very pointedly looked the artist up and down replying with “I sure do,” and Angela was thankful she turned back to the paintings before seeing her cheeks turn red.

“These will do nicely,” Anna concluded. “And I think I’d like one for myself.”

Angela couldn’t help her smile. “Of course, anything you like”

Anna eyed her, with a bit of a half smile on her face. “I think I like…”

She walked about the room a bit, not really looking at anything, then turned to the easel in the center, on which sat an unfinished landscape of a young boy on the beach, “This one is lovely.”

“Oh,” Angela was confused. “Its not really done yet.”

“So when it is, you’ll deliver it to me won’t you?”

“Well I suppose.”

“I’ll pay extra for the trip.”

Anna turned away from the easel and leaned in. “Because I would love to see you again.”

Angela looked down at her feet and smiled, “Very well. You’ll have as soon as it’s done.”

“Wonderful,” Anna replied walking toward the table again. “I’ll get you my number so you can let me know.”

“Anna,” Angela said walking to the other side of the table and leaning over it. “Of course you can have the painting. But I’m not really one for patience anymore. I like when people come straight to me, sometimes.”

“Well then,” Anna smiled and leaned toward her, noses nearly touching, “Let’s not waste any time.”

Angela pressed her lips against Anna’s, who took wasting no time seriously and opened her mouth and pushed forward. Angela tangled her fingers in Anna’s dark waves and Anna returned the gesture by running her hand down Angela’s back under her blouse.

After twists and turns and breaths and hands, Angela found herself kneeling on the table, paintings pushed to the side, with Anna looking up at her, both of their blouses and hair undone, and Anna’s skirt pulled up to her thighs.

“Will you’re husband be waiting?” Angela asked in almost a whisper.

“Would it matter if he was?” Anna replied, stroking her cheek.

The memories of others had caressed that same cheek pushed into the front of Angela’s mind and she leaned back. Anna withdrew her hand, and again, looked Angela up and down with a sweet smile.

“Until the delivery, I suppose?” she said.

Angela nodded, “I’ll call you.”

They helped each other dress back up and Angela walked Anna to the door, and watched her walk down the stairs and with one last look back to her, out of sight. She closed the door and turned to her paintings. All of her memories. Most form the years in New York, but some, that she would normally never sell, from the years before. Including the unfinished child on the beach, a little boy in a blue sailor suit, playing in the sand. An image she never forgot, and was now giving up to someone else.

And she felt relieved.


End file.
